


We Can Refuse

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katrina is shaken by what happened in Redcliffe. Bull offers some advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Refuse

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _In Hushed Whispers_.

Bull's dozing in his tent when he hears the rustle of canvas, only a few paces to his left.

"Your Worship," the scout on watch says; there's a thump of fist on breastplate.

"As you were," Katrina replies, her voice unusually cool. Her footsteps pass the flap of Bull's tent; she's making her way out of their camp.

"My lady, you shouldn't go alone—"

"I'll only be a minute."

Bull gives her the benefit of the doubt. He counts to sixty—slowly, even—while he pulls on his boots.

When she doesn't return, he ducks out of his tent. The scout turns to him, eyes wide with indecision.

"Which way?" he asks.

"Toward the stream," she replies, fretting with her bow. "I tried to stop her, but…"

"She'd have fried you if you tried any harder, mood she's in. I'll get her."

Her shoulders slump with relief. "Thank you."

He reaches back into his tent and gropes around for a blanket, just in case. She's been off since they left Redcliffe—since she stepped out of that rift, white as bone, speckled with blood. He can still see it: the lightning in her hands, crawling up her arms, fingers twitching as though she wanted to cut Alexius down where he stood.

He gets it. She gave them the briefest idea of what happened inside that rift; in her place, he'd want to kill the bastard, too. Can't be a good feeling for her, though. She doesn't like killing. She sees the necessity, she doesn't shirk the deed itself when something attacks her, but she doesn't like it.

Except in that moment, in the throne room, standing over Alexius with thunder in her voice, she  _did_ like it—the idea of it, before she reigned herself in—and it's got her spooked.

When he reaches the bank without finding her, he stands still and listens. There's the uniform sound of the stream, gurgling, rushing, and—there, far to his left, the irregular splash of something in the water. He turns and follows the sound.

Eventually, he finds her perched on a submerged rock, her armor stripped off, her staff discarded. She's up to her waist in the water, down to a thin undershirt and her smalls. The stream must be freezing—even half a dozen paces away, he can see her shivering. She makes no move to leave the water; she plunges her hands in, comes up with fistfuls of coarse sand, and scrubs her skin with it—forceful, haphazard, harried.

"Hey," he calls over the noise of the stream.

She glances over her shoulder. "Balls," she mutters, turning away again. "The scout told on me, didn't she?" Her attempt at humor is thin; her words catch, as though she can't get enough air.

"I heard you leave. She just helped out directionally."

She shakes her head, bending forward to wash away the sand. She hauls up more of the stuff and goes for her neck next. Evidently, she's decided to ignore him.

He sits down at the bank, setting the blanket beside her armor. "So. The future, huh."

Her motions stutter, pausing. She doesn't look at him, but he sees her shoulders heave with her frantic breathing.

"Yeah. Messed up. Thought you might need an ear."

She doesn't answer. She slides right off the rock, into the stream up to her neck. The current catches her hair; she dips her head back, gritting her teeth, and gets the whole of it wet before she hoists herself back onto the rock, gasping.

Some other time, he might have admired the generous swell of her breasts or the line of her collarbone just below her lean shoulders. Now, though, with her body hunched forward, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering, he doesn't admire her. Instead, he considers the best method of dragging her out of the stream without getting shocked to death.

"Saw a guy die from cold once," he offers. "Not the way you wanna go, boss."

As though it takes great effort, she gathers up her hair and wrings it out. He can see her hands shaking.

"I don't know how I'm gonna explain to Cullen that we got the mages, but lost our Herald to hypothermia," he continues. She doesn't so much as glance at him. "He's gonna be  _pissed_."

She lifts her chin, turning her nose up at his prediction.

"Okay." He gets to his feet. "Could've done this the easy way."

She's too damn stubborn to look at him, so she doesn't realize he's waded into the stream after her until it's too late for her to dart out of reach. He grabs her around the waist and hoists her off the rock; she doesn't put up much of a fight, a few halfhearted kicks and jabbing elbows as he drags her back to the shore. When he puts her down on the grass, she sits—knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.

"Shirt off," he orders. She glares up at him. "Oh, don't give me that. I brought a blanket."

She looks like she might argue, but when he brandishes the blanket, she pulls the sopping shirt over her head. He drops the blanket around her shoulders, settling it snug around her, and she pulls it in, letting out a shaky sigh at the warmth.

He sits down beside her and waits. Gradually, her shivering stops; she huddles under the blanket, breathing evenly again.

"Sorry," she mutters. "I was being stupid."

"Nah." At her raised eyebrows, he shakes his head. "The future doesn't sound like fun. Crap like that hits you hard. Like your chest is too tight, and you can't get enough air."

She frowns; he sees her hand move beneath the blanket, rubbing at her breastbone. "Yeah. How...how did you know?"

He shrugs. "Seheron was full of crap, too."

She huffs, like she might laugh at the joke if it were a better day. "Eloquent." She pauses, watching the stream—and then, softer, she says, "You were just the same. Even with the lyrium killing you. Just wanted to beat the stuffing out of something. And then...the Elder One…" Her voice cracks. "One of the terrors just  _tossed_ your body through the doorway. I didn't even see Sera. They had Leliana by the throat as we jumped into the rift."

"You fixed it." He bumps her shoulder with his. "Saved all our asses."

"I still wanted to kill him." Voice lower now, strained. "I still  _want_ to kill him."

"But you didn't."

"Doesn't feel like much of a victory." She sighs, raking her hair back from her face. "I've never wanted to kill anything before. Maybe spiders. But not  _people_."

She looks seriously miserable about it, too. He considers telling her that there are some people who deserve to die, but he doubts she would find it comforting.

"It is a choice," he says at last. "And you can refuse it."

Her head tips sideways, confusion knitting her brow. "Pardon?"

He explains it to her the way he did to Gatt—a long time ago, in what feels like another life. "There's chaos inside all of us. Blind instinct, emotions—getting in the way of order. You can let that chaos chart your course for you, or you can restrain it. You choose which part of your nature to indulge. Maybe you still want to kill Alexius—but you didn't. If it matters to you, if it  _is_ who you are, you won't. Asit tal-eb—it is to be."

She considers him. Her features have softened, as though the words were the right ones. "The Qun says that?" she asks.

"Right after that part about the locusts." He shakes his head. "They are what they are, right, but what they are is  _annoying_."

She laughs, somber mood broken, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thanks, Bull." She glances over to her clothes and adds, a touch sheepishly, "Um, would you turn around while I get dressed?"

He rolls his eye but does as she asks. As soon as his back is turned, she tosses the blanket over his horns, snorting with laughter.

"Next time you pitch your skills to someone, you ought to include 'adequate coat rack,'" she says, her voice quivering.

"Like I haven't heard that before," he says, but still—her muffled chuckling puts a smile on his face.


End file.
